


rearrange the songs again / this mix could burn a hole in anyone

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>But it was you I was thinking of.</em> A series of ficlets accompanied by music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rearrange the songs again / this mix could burn a hole in anyone

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a series of five songs, which are linked as musical notes in the corresponding drabbles. The parameters were that I would write based on the first five songs that I heard via my iPod's shuffle and that I would write only during the course of the song. Main title taken from The Mixed Tape by Jack's Mannequin.

[♪](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExfBmaVePxo)

It’s been ten years since you’ve talked and you’re still not sure why you ever stopped, but you did. You can remember the times in the summer heat when he’d come and visit you -- when you’d both run around on the beach and act six and no one would care. It’s winter and it’s been over twenty years since your last summer; fifteen since your last shared breath. You’re old now, at least by your own estimation, and you can still feel (the memories of) the vibrance of youth, the remnants of warm sand and salty laughs. It’s winter and you still don’t pick up the phone. You think to yourself that you’ll leave it, just for another year, but it occurs to you that you won’t call even then.

———

[♪♫](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIAbXu3ojMM)

It’s never been overwhelming before, you think, as you glance over at him. It’s August and you’re both together at the beach and covered in sand and you’ve always thought he was beautiful but you’ve never wanted him quite like you do right now. You can’t wait to get your hands on him, under his shirt and through his hair and you want to do it all together, right at this moment. You really didn’t know that you wanted this, but you feel euphoric, alive and awake and untethered, and you don’t want to ever, _ever, ever_ stop. You tuck his hair behind his ears and smooth over his cheek and look into his eyes, glimmering with sunlight, and you think: _what the fuck_. You kiss him and it’s imperfect (but it’s enough).

———

  


[   
♪♫♪   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCN_Potbuf0)

Every once in a while there’s a perfectly timed autumn rain; Andy and Novak sneak away for an afternoon. The colored leaves are piling around their bare feet, grimy and disgusting, squelching under their toes. They lift up their faces and catch the raindrops with their eyelashes and they lick the last of the summer from the roofs of each others' mouths. Their fingers are spread into starfishes and they raise their arms towards the sky and they spin. Andy loves storms in the fall: the rain is still warm but the wind is cool on their necks, ruffling up their hair with amusement. Their clothes are soaked and so is everything else and their coaches might yell at them later, but they dance together and splash through the puddles. Their grins are wide and they’re giddy and just for a moment their breaths catch.

———

  


[   
♪♫♪♪   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN49zrMNXRg)

There’s an hour and a half when it’s just the two of them everyday, just before sunset. For a few minutes they’re not bothered, couldn’t care less about the world or their near menial jobs. Andy puts on a pot of tea for them (they bicker about whether it’ll be Novak’s favorite chai or Andy’s “proper English”) and they pile together like a young couple in an old armchair. For just that hour and a half, the kids are gone to tennis or piano or football practice and it’s just the two of them. Andy twines his legs around Nole’s, who grabs his latest book (which he’ll try to talk about to Andy when he’s finished, but Andy will snort and drag Novak towards him and distract him with kisses). Andy sits there with his mug, warm beneath his fingers and whispers into Novak’s ear, his voice a low, almost unintelligible, hum of Scottish brogue. Novak swats at Andy before running his fingers through his hair. After years traveling around the world playing tennis, Andy never thought that there would be a time when he was _comfortable_ , but he almost is. Their fingers clasp together and Andy’s thumb runs over the backs of Nole’s hands. They still have a few minutes before the kids come home, he thinks, and he snuggles his nose into Novak’s neck.

———

  


[   
♪♫♫♪♫   
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXkYFkTIEXw)

The first time, Andy sees Nole smiling, wing blowing into his face, through his hair, and he’s glowing. It’s only in passing, just for a minute, but something warm bubbles up in Andy’s chest and Andy wants to bottle it up and keep it for a rainy day (for every day). Andy knows that he’s not any good at expressing himself, but when Andy turns on his iPod, the first song that comes up on his shuffle reminds him of Nole, of that smile, of the briskly cool day and the warm sunshine and the look in Novak’s eyes; Andy’s suddenly searching through the rest of his music trying to find the perfect songs that fit together just so, that come together in a way that he can’t escape the feeling. That’s Andy’s first playlist.

Before long it’s compulsive. He sees Nole lose to Roger at the US Open and makes a playlist of despair and want and working too hard and coming apart at the seams. He sees Nole laughing at something Marian says and makes a playlist of that sound, that rhythm, that heart, that fullness of life. He watches Nole play with Djordje, sees them goofing around in the London snow, and makes a playlist of always-affection and winter hot chocolate by the fire. He sees how Novak looks at Jelena and makes a playlist about desire ~~, about longing~~. He sees Novak win Australian Open and makes a playlist about unadulterated joy, so bright that it burns his irises. For that one he writes the playlist that he can’t make for himself.

Months later, when Novak catches his eye and grins at him in the locker room, Andy scrambles for his always-ready iPod to find songs about perfection and he thinks _Oh_. For that playlist, Andy writes about being in love.


End file.
